


Bend Towards The Sun

by moosewingz



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: And also Peter is drunk, And an oblivious moron, Everyone Fancies Peter, Flowers, M/M, Peter's boyfriend is called Henry Morris, Really drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:46:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moosewingz/pseuds/moosewingz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is being courted, and his work colleagues are acting weird. Who's leaving him the lovely bouquets?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bend Towards The Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elanor/gifts).



> The title is from Jeff Buckley's song, "All Flowers in Time" - the relevant lines being 'All flowers in time bend towards the sun. I know you say there's no one for you, but here is one'
> 
> Based exclusively on the movie 'verse, I've never read the books. And we decided Peter's boyfriend looks like a Henry.

*~*~*~*

The first time Peter comes into work to find flowers on his desk, he blinks once, sniffs them cautiously, and glances around the office.

Joanne, the pretty young brunette working on typescripts a few desks over appears to be giggling into her tea and shooting him sidelong looks. Deciding that that probably solves the mystery, Peter smirks in her direction (which elicits another titter) and throws his coat over the back of his chair, ready to work.

*~*~*~*

The second time it happens is exactly one week later, by which time Joanne has taken to spending her evenings with that stocky blonde fellow who drives Mr Haydon around. She's not above sending Peter the odd hooded gaze over her typewriter - especially when he wears his silk-backed waistcoat - but unless Peter's seriously losing his edge, they're both well aware that it's just playing.

Peter sets his briefcase down on his desk and picks up the small bunch of yellow germinis, inhaling gently. He's fairly certain this isn't some convoluted plot to murder him for the governmental secrets he carries around daily, but his line of work does breed a sort of institutionalised paranoia.

As far as he can tell, this isn't an anniversary of any kind, and he doesn't have any creepy exes who might be stalking him (unlike Ricki, who had a bit of a worrying experience with a leggy blonde last month), so Peter's at a loss as to who might be sending him flowers.

Then Ann Smiley walks in, heels clip-clopping on the polished wood floor, her lips painted a sticky red. She's incredibly beautiful, as always, and her hips sway hypnotically. Even Peter's fixed on them, and he has to force himself to drag his gaze back up to her face.

Only to see her smiling at him, and there's something predatory behind the perfectly even white teeth.

"Flowers, Mr Guillam? I wonder if you're the admirer ...or the _admired_." She chucks him under the chin with a glossy-red, pointed nail, before sauntering away.

Peter darts a wide-eyed look from her retreating back to the flowers in his hand, and suddenly he can't get rid of them fast enough. Luckily, Henrietta down in Filing is due to have a baby in a week, so Peter doesn't even have to think of an excuse. Mrs Smiley might be a damned attractive woman, but it was more than Peter's job was worth (and his job was worth rather a lot, when it came down to it) to pursue anything at all in that quarter, even should he want to try.

*~*~*~*

Next week, Peter's late for work - his car broke down, so he had to take the bus, but of course there were roadworks scheduled on his route and really he should have just walked, even if it was pouring rain outside. He runs into his office, spares barely a "Morning!" for Joanne, and thumps his briefcase down on his chair. Why did it have to be _this_ morning? He was meant to be in a meeting with Smiley almost ten minutes ago!

It was only as he was rapidly tangling himself up in his own clothes (apparently removing one's sopping wet coat while running one hand through one's dripping fringe and frantically trying to get one's keys out of one's trouser pocket with the other isn't a manoeuvre particularly conducive to success) that Peter notices the newest bouquet. It's pink lilies this time, and they're lovely, but Peter really can't be dealing with this right now, he has _things to do_. Eventually, Joanne takes pity on him, and drags the heavy brown coat down his arms, remonstrating with him fondly. He's about to dart off upstairs, but she grabs his arm, shakes her head at him and smiles, before gently brushing his hair back into place and straightening out his tie.

Again he tries to leave.

Joanne stops him again, raises her eyebrows, and plops his briefcase and files into his arms.

"Damn, Joanne, what would I do without you?" Peter quips, starting to smile, despite his dismal morning. He bends slightly to give her a peck on the cheek, then finally sprints off upstairs.

He only slows back down to a sedate walk a few steps away from Smiley's office, takes a deep breath, and dives in (metaphorically, of course).

"Terribly sorry I'm late, sir. You would not believe the state of the public transport system this morning." He's just sitting down at the conference table, and Ricki's laughing at him behind his hand, he can tell, when Smiley does the unprecedented.

He reaches over and pats his hand, smiling genially. "Quite alright, Peter. Now, where had we got to?"

And all in all, it's lucky that Peter doesn't need to say anything, just take notes and slide papers around the table, because disturbed as he is, he he's a bit slow at following the discussion.

The end of the meeting isn't any better. Peter's just managed to calm down and convince himself he's just imagining things, and he's packing away his files, when there's a tap on his elbow. Assuming it's Ricki (because Ricki has no concept at all of personal space, it's rather disturbing actually, and he's probably wanting to tell Peter all about his latest girl anyway), Peter spins round with a condescending retort ready on his lips.

Except he comes face to face with George Smiley.

Peter immediately feels wrong-footed. "Oh, uh, sir, yes, again, sorry for the lateness, I was--"

"Don't worry about it at all, my dear Peter," Smiley says, and Peter doesn't know which is worse, "my dear Peter" or the hand placed consolingly on his chest, right over where his heart is beating a rather concerned staccato. "I know that you're very dedicated to your job, to what we do _together_ , and it's for that reason that I have a very important assignment for you."

And Peter's thoroughly, _thoroughly_ terrified now. Somehow Smiley's guided him back down to his office, a hand tucked around his arm, but even as Smiley cheerily greets Joanne, Peter can't stop staring at his boss. His face is probably the very image of horrified right now.

Then they get to his desk, and Smiley sees the flowers.

"Ah, how lovely, Peter. Flowers - from an admirer, maybe?" And he's picking them up and thrusting his face right into them, inhaling deeply with his eyes closed. Leaning back again, and handing the flowers directly to Peter, who takes them awkwardly, he adds "Oriental lilies have always been my favourite, you know. Now, if you just come around to my house later, dear boy -- my wife will be out this evening -- we can discuss that delicate _assignment_ I was talking about."

And then he leaves, with a _wink_.

Peter thinks he might not even have to _fake_ an illness to get out of this evening visit.

*~*~*~*

A week to the day later, five days after Peter "recovered" from a "severe and sudden bout of the 'flu," Peter is walking in with Ricki, smiling as banter (rather than the usual mockery and insults) bounces back and forth between them.

"As if I would ever do anything of the sort with--"

"Hey! Pete, look, you didn't tell me you'd got a lady friend!"

Peter's just starting with a "Wha--" when he looks in the direction that Ricki is gleefully pointing (using the toothpick he'd been happily chewing just beforehand. Honestly, the man is disgusting sometimes). There's yet another bunch of flowers - this one an almost offensively large array of red and white roses - and there's even a card stuck in this one.

Suddenly, his good mood is gone, and he's striding over and snatching the card up.

It's addressed in the neatest cursive Peter's seen in a long while, but all it says is "Perhaps roses are rather forward, considering how long we've known each other, but I couldn't resist. Yours, if you'll have me."

Peter sort of wants to blush and maybe even giggle a little bit - he's being sent _roses_ with a _card_ at _work_ \- but most of him is just _really, really angry._

Not even caring who else is in the room at this point, he spins and closes right in on Ricki (who takes a confused half-step backwards), balling his hands into fists.

"The hell is this, Ricki?!"

Ricki sticks his hands up in front of him, eyes wide. "What? Why would I send you flowers, Pete?"

"Well, I'll be _damned_ if I know!" Peter positively roared, right up in his face.

Now Ricki's start to get annoyed too. "Seriously, what is with you? For a start, they're just flowers, means a girl likes you! Why would I send you them? _I'm_ not interested!" Ricki's eyebrows draw down into a frown. "And anyway, Joanne said you'd been getting flowers for a while. You could have told us you had a girlfriend, you know. I wouldn't even have teas--"

"I don't have a girlfriend, you _moron_ , which you well know because it's clearly you - you and the rest of this damned department - who's been sending me these flowers each week and--"

Ricki breaks into the rant Peter's building up to by the simple solution of covering his mouth with a large, calloused palm. "Pete, are you listening to yourself? Why would we be sending you flowers?"

He raises his eyebrows at Peter, and slowly removes his hand. Peter pouts a bit, and doesn't even feel particularly ashamed about it. "I assume it's some kind of elaborate prank. I don't know, you're the ones doing it. I don't know what you're hoping to achieve but--"

"Exactly!" Ricki throws his hands up in the air again. "What _could_ we be hoping to achieve, Peter? I'm telling you, to the best of my knowledge, no one in this office is sending you flowers. And I'm certainly not - no offence, mate." He grins encouragingly, rests a hand on Peter's shoulder.

All the anger flows out of Peter as fast as it rose up in the first place. He slumps forward and rests his head on Ricki's chest, just breathes for a minute. Ricki pats him on the head (he's probably laughing at him right now, he's always trying to mess up Peter's hair) and he's pretty sure the smaller hand rubbing circles on his back is Joanne.

"Sorry," he mumbles, closing his eyes in embarrassment.

He can feel the way Ricki shrugs, loose and comfortable, before he props himself on Peter's desk. "No problem. So, do you want to tell me what all that was about? You don't know who's sending you pretty, pretty flowers - and if they don't say "I love you", or at the very least "I want a really good shag" then I don't know what does - so you decided it must be an office prank?"

Joanne smacks Ricki round the back of the head, laughing, but her big brown eyes are concerned as she watches Peter. He sighs.

"I have absolutely no idea who could be sending them. The only people who know my work address are my family and you lot. I can't think of a reason mother would be sending me flowers, father's definitely out, and while my sister might, she'd definitely put a note in, probably something about how she's such a much better sibling than me. Which just leaves people from work. I thought Joanne had left the first lot, you see, but then the second time Lady Ann showed up and..."

*~*~*~*

When Peter leaves work that day, he's feeling justifiably exhausted. As well as his usual work, he'd had to spend a few hours down at the practice range, and then Smiley had passed on the files for that "assignment" he'd mentioned (which turned out to be a real one, actually - infiltrating a possible Russian cell in London itself) and the preliminary discussions had kept him him in even later.

All he really wants was to crash on his couch and go to sleep, but he's wound so tight that he can feel his shoulders clenching underneath his starched shirt. He needs to relax.

It's with that in mind that he turns off his normal route and walks (his car still isn't fixed yet) down several alleyways and shortcuts until he arrives at a little pub built into the wall of a backstreet. As unpromising as the outside appears, the inside is warm and cosy, friendly, and far nicer than his rather bare flat. It isn't until he's folded himself onto a barstool, curling protectively over the tumbler of whiskey the barkeep sets in front of him, that Peter realises he's still carrying the huge bouquet of roses.

Even as he sighs resignedly, he finds himself smiling slightly. They're looking a bit battered now - rather like Peter feels, in fact - but they're still pretty, and they smell lovely.

It is, of course, at this moment that an increasingly familiar voice breaks into his thoughts, a "Peter, how are you?" offered right next to his ear.

Turning round, he's unsurprised to find Henry looking down at him. Propping his elbows back on the bar, Peter smiles lazily, suppressing a yawn. "Evening, Mr Morris." He injects a hint of teasing into the words, knowing how much Henry - a teacher by profession - hates being addressed so formally when not at work.

Henry simply rolls his eyes and sits himself down on the next stool. "You looked exhausted, old chap. Surely you should be at home, in bed, not nursing a drink and a... and a bouquet." His voice sounds a little odd, strained maybe, on the last few words, but Peter's so tired that he's probably imagining it.

"Needed to wind down," he shrugs, a broad grin spreading across his face as the alcohol starts to warm him from the inside out. He waves at the barkeep for another, keeping his eyes on Henry.

They talk for a while, and Peter drinks, and he thinks he might be getting a little giggly but he's pleasantly fuzzy and his limbs feel so loose that he could just slide off the stool. Finally, Henry smiles at him softly, and reaches over and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, fingertips trailing softly over his skin. Peter shivers and grins wider, leaning in. And Henry laughs.

"Oh, of course, you would be that way, wouldn't you." Peter's confused, but figures he probably just missed something, and anyway, Henry looks pretty with his face so open and happy, skin crinkling at the corners of his blue, blue eyes, and so he opts for smiling gamely back, unconcerned. The look Henry shoots him is fond, and he pats him on the knee. "You're all polite and calm and no sign of interest normally, but then give you a few to drink and all of a sudden you start to turn into an octopus. I never pegged you for a cuddler, Mr Guillam."

Peter's about to protest - he doesn't cuddle with just anyone, thank you very much, and he doesn't actually have eight arms and legs, and can't Henry tell that, how would he fit them in his waistcoat? - when Henry slips off the stool and waves the barman over just as he slides a heavy, solid arm around Peter's back. Peter thinks about turtles and how maybe this is what having a shell feels like, except Henry's not all hard like a shell, he's soft, even a bit squishy around the middle maybe, and his jacket's scratchy not smooth.

"I don't think I'm very like a turtle," Peter mumbles in Henry's general direction, although his aim might be a little off since Henry chooses that moment to stand him up, and the floor decides to sway a little alarmingly. Henry's a little bit taller than him, and the floor doesn't seem to want to knock him over, so Peter lets himself melt into Henry's side a little bit, to smile into his shoulder.

Henry chuckles and looks down at him, eyes warm. "No, I wouldn't really describe you as a turtle either, I'm afraid." And he brushes Peter's fringe out of his face again, and his fingers are back on Peter's skin for just a moment, and Peter lets his eyes close. "No, come on, you're not sleeping here. Let's get you home."

He's just about got Peter out the door when Peter remembers.

"No! Wait! The flowers, the red-and-white, had them earlier--" he starts, and Henry just smiles and hands them to him as they step outside. Peter does blush this time, and giggle, but there's only Henry there to see so it's alright. "Pretty," he sighs.

Henry hums in return, and tightens his arm around Peter's waist a little, hoisting him a little closer at the same time. "They are very pretty, yes. So who gave them to you? You haven't had any flowers before today." And were Peter sober, he might notice the way that Henry's voice is tighter, more controlled than normal, but as it is, he just thrusts the whole bouquet into Peter's face for him to smell and laughs harder.

"I don't know," he answers, the words slipping and sliding together a little bit, "I don't know who gave me to them, I mean, them to me. They always get to work before me, and first I thought it was Joanne, but then she was with the car-man, you know, those men who drive other men around in cars that don't really belong to them but they aren't cabs? Then I thought maybe Ann, so I gave them away to Henrietta, and then it was scary because it might have been Smiley but it turned out it was really just a job and not sex--"

Henry huffs out a laugh at him.

"--and then I shouted at Ricki but he said it wasn't him and he hugged me and then I had extra work and I was walking but my shoulders hurt so I came here and then there was you but it can't be you because you don't know where I work and you don't do things like that, you talk to me, and you buy me drinks, and you're very friendly, but no flowers, nooooo floweeeers for meeee," he finishes, a little morose without meaning to be, drawing out the vowels to see what it felt like to say them while he was walking.

And Henry was smiling softly, fondly, and propping him against a wall, and when did they get to his home? "When did we get home?" Peter asked, tugging at Henry's sleeve to get his attention.

"Just now, Peter. You told me where you lived a couple of weeks ago, remember - or maybe you don't, you'd drunk quite a lot that night - but you made me swear not to tell a soul or you'd have to kill me. I know you like those James Bond books," he adds, digging in Peter's pocket for his keys, and making Peter giggle again, "but I really think that death threats are a little over-the-top, Mr Super-Spy."

Henry rolls his eyes at Peter and tugs him back up from the wall, pulling him up the stairs until they get to number seven. Inside, he herds Peter into the bedroom, where Henry is forced to help him change for bed before he falls into the floor face first and breaks his pretty, pretty cheekbones. Peter wonders vaguely whether Henry always sighs this much.

But it's only when Henry goes to put Peter's briefcase in the hall that things start getting difficult. He's heading back to the bedroom to check on Peter one last time before letting himself out, when Peter tumbles out from the doorway, grinning like a mad thing, and wraps himself around Henry. If Henry hadn't grabbed the edge of a bookcase, they'd have fallen over.

"Octopusssss," Peter hisses in Henry's ear, before chuckling to himself and proceeding to become an immoveable and cuddly weight. The only way Henry can get him onto the bed is to fall over with him.

"Honestly, Peter," he mutters, closing his eyes and trying to edge away, "I need to go. Come on, let go now."

Peter just hisses some more.

Eventually, it's only a combination of his strictest teacher voice and a practised glare that get Peter tucked up in bed, peering out at Henry with big grey eyes, ginger hair mussed. Peter's wondering quite how Henry got to be so tall, and thinking that he'd look better without his jacket on, when Henry swallows loudly.

"Look, Peter, you need to sleep, and so do I. I'll see you soon, back at the King's Arms, but I'm going to leave now."

Peter wants to stop him, but he somehow doesn't think that Henry would appreciate that right now. He still pouts though. Henry rolls his eyes and walks out, leaving Peter feeling strangely rejected, so he curls up and buries his face in a pillow, determined to sulk. But when the floor creaks behind him again, Peter turns to see Henry placing a small vase with two of his roses in it (a red and a white one) on his bedside table.

"The rest are in a bigger vase in the kitchen. Now go to sleep, I'll see you soon. And you will owe me a pint at the very least."

Peter giggles because it seems the right thing to do, and before he knows it, he's asleep.

*~*~*~*

He wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache and fumbles blindly through his morning routine, determined to keep his eyes shut as much as possible. He's drowning his sorrows in the biggest mug of coffee he could make when he finally registers a note on the table, just between the vase of flowers and his plate of barely-touched scrambled eggs. Intrigued, he pulls it over, and forces his eyes open long enough to read it. The writing is somewhat familiar, and Peter's forehead wrinkles in thought.

_Peter,  
Looks like you had a worse day than you said. I got you home and into bed, and you so owe me a pint some time. I hope you don't drink like this regularly, although I admit I did just happen to catch sight of a rather nice malt scotch on your cabinet before I left...  
See you soon, I'm sure, and I promise I'll keep your address secret (don't worry, Mr Bond, you won't have to kill me),  
Henry Morris_

Peter chokes on his coffee as he remembers. He hadn't thrown himself at a man like that since he was in his teens, Jesus. (Un)Fortunately, it didn't look like Henry was interested, and Peter is a little disturbed at quite how upset he felt at that thought, but he certainly owes him rather more than a drink. He'll think about it later though, when his head doesn't feel like it's going to fall right off his shoulders at the slightest provocation.

*~*~*~*

Peter's in the middle of recording field reports to be filed when he drops his pen. Ignoring the ink stain on the paper, and the splatter on his waistcoat, he gapes into the middle distance like an attractive and rather humanoid goldfish.

He knows where he's seen the writing from this morning's note before. Without his consent, his eyes dart down to his buttonhole, where he'd tucked one of the smaller white roses from yesterday's bouquet. He looks up again. He blinks.

Peter picks up his pen.

*~*~*~*

The day Peter receives his fifth lot of flowers (chrysanthemums, and very beautiful), with a neatly written note just featuring his name, he doesn't rage at anyone. He smiles mysteriously when Joanne brings it up, and when Ricki starts to poke fun, he doesn't even snipe back. It's the best workday Peter's had in quite a while.

It's also the first day that he sends some flowers of his own.

*~*~*~*

_You're right, roses were rather forward, but I suppose I owe you. You're forgiven. They were very nice roses. You, on the other hand, seem more like a daisy person._

_Meet me at the King's Arms this evening, and I'll buy you dinner as well as that pint._

_Yours,  
P._

*~FIN~*


End file.
